The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2021
- Автор: Рот Вероника, Адамс Джон Джозеф
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: HMH Books : Mariner
- ISBN: 9780358470076
- Жанр: Малые литературные формы прозы
Электронная книга - «The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2021». Краткое содержание книги:
This year’s selection of science fiction and fantasy stories, chosen by series editor John Joseph Adams and bestselling author of the Divergent series Veronica Roth, showcases a crop of authors that are willing to experiment and tantalize readers with new takes on classic themes and by exchanging the ordinary for the avant-garde. Folktales and lore come alive, the dead rise, the depths of space are traversed, and magic threads itself through singular moments of love and loss, illuminating the circulatory nature of life, death, the in-between, and the hereafter.
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2021 captures the all-too-real cataclysm of human nature, claiming its place in the series with compelling prose, lyrical composition, and curiosity’s never-ending pursuit of discovering the unknown.
First I used to come in me nighty but dat change when I fall down too many times. Now I does keep a ole pair of jeans by de back porch. I does roll dem up and put dem in a plastic bag cause one time I find a mahogany bird on de left leg. Me ain’t know who was more shock, me or she. It wave it antennae at me as if in warning before skittering away. I could see t’was a she cause she belly fat fat wid eggs. I screech loud and jump ’round like I was dancing for true. People say when I scream I does sound like a horny cat so I sure dem inside sleeping ain’t even turn over. Of course I had tink to step ’pon she, but as she was moving fast and she was outside, in her home, not inside in mine, I calm meself. I is a muddah too. Plastic bag make we both happy.
Once de bottles dem all lay out in a rough square I rest most of me leg weight ’pon de nearest one. A ting I learn is to put dem down in a grid pattern, so dey ain’t all facing de same way. Den dey ain’t so quick to dash me to de ground. I roll me foot on de first one. Toes, arch, heel, back and forth, ’til me foot know de bottle and de bottle know me. Den I roll over two bottles, den three. I ain’t standing on it yet, mind. Just me leg weight. Den I switch off and do de other foot, de other leg. Come time I tink, but Mable, you schupid or what? Why you lay out thirty bottles when you only practicing wid six? But I like de look of all a dem splayed out in front a me. Dey know I coming, soon as I get good enough. Is like dey is a ocean of glass and I learning to swim. Some a dem I must curl me toes to grip and others I must make me foot more round. Before I put me full heavy weight, what me doctor ain’t happy ’bout, but me and Boy-oh does enjoy, I decide to try two foot together. I sit down on de ground, raise me knees in de air, and learn to roll de two a dem same time, moving in circles, triangles, checkerboard squares. Heel, toe rhythms. One ting I tell you, me belly gon’ flatter doing dat. Weeks go by ’til I feel to move up to sitting in a folding chair I bring from de back porch. I making de patterns more intricate. But I still ain’t standing ’pon dem for real yet.
“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy, guess what?”
Dat is me middle daughter, Rue, screaming into de phone while I at work. I keep trying tell she dese tings have microphones but she does talk like ole people on de phone. Always yelling. But dat is she all over. She gon’ talk, she gon’ tell, and when she excited she gon’ yell. She call me on me work number too, cause she know me cell phone pack down in me bag. I take de black receiver, plastered over wid Property of Consumer Affairs, out de back door. De green garbage bins busy feeding flies and I step more into de parking lot.
“Okay, I listening. What happen, Rue?”
“I got it. I got it! I got it.”
Rue be going for so much me ain’t sure what we celebrating. Dean’s list? Valedictorian? Scholarship Award? She graduating from University of the Virgin Islands in June. We still working out how to pay for she master’s in journalism.
“I was picked to be secondary announcer at Calypso Tent. I’m going to be live on air! On the radio and TV. And people will be streaming it from all over the world!”
“Wooy-yoii, chile, dat is great. Just great. I so proud of you. When you find out? Just now?”
“Yes, Doc Cyril called me. I sent him an audition tape. Lots of people did. And he picked me! Me!”
“I know you gon’ be wonderful, Rue. You made to do dis. You does see everyting and tell all. You is just right for de job. He gon’ love working wid you.”
“I hope so. I have a meeting with him next week. And then every two weeks until Carnival.”
“Un-huh.” She calming down a little and I could bring de phone closer to me ear. I notice I standing on one foot, circling me ankle in de air. I switch to de other foot. De heat getting to me, de stench of food waste from de cookshop two doors down. De cement alley come like a oven baking everyting in sight.
“I glad you call me. Dis wonderful news. You gon’ call you father now?”
“I’ll call him later, when he gets home. I have to go back to class. I’ll come visit on Sunday. What you cooking?”
“I gon’ surprise you,” I tell she, but really ain’t gon’ be no surprise. I gon’ make she favorites.
Treevia napping in de green Ting soda bottle when she find sheself swooping through de air and den placed back on de cooling ground. She could see a bright light swinging about ’til it come to shine directly in she eyes and she wanted to run, run and hide, but she couldn’t self see what was going on. T’wasn’t de moon, moving so close and fierce. Nor even de back porch light, which all a dem had done get used to. Treevia wish she was in de dark brown Red Stripe beer bottle instead, where she would blend in little more. She creep nearer de opening and peer out, antennae twitching wid fear. Could she make a run for it? Climb over all dem bottles? Up and down de slippery waves of glass and make it back to de hibiscus hedge before death find she? She was still to teach she youngest how to make green leaf mold. She and she muddah suppose to go foraging for dead crab leavings next bright moon.
Treevia had see de woman, Mable, come out in de night and play wid de bottles many times before. But she had never come dis early. Dis time, as de commotion continue, wid bottles landing everywhere and de light from de woman hand lantern searching out de creator’s own footsteps, Treevia could only wait and wonder why she always take such risks. She know she love de slight pressure she feel when crawling into each new bottle. She know she love to wallow in de smells and pooling puddles. She wonder if she best friends and worst enemies both right and she gon’ die a death dat swarms will be warned about for generations. Treeviaitis: death by stupidity.
De light steadied and stilled and Treevia move closer to de neck of de bottle to peek out. A foot. Mable’s naked foot came down at her. Treevia screamed.
I had just finish working out a very simple routine when Boy-oh come sneaking up behind me and I almost break a bottle I land so hard.
“Mable, what you doing out here in de middle of de night, baby?”
He say it gently, like he tink I crazy and he gon’ have to take me to de building widout no windows.
“Nothing,” I say. De lie all around me.
“You been getting up in de night a lot. I thought you was watching TV. Someting wrong? You feeling all right? You ain’t sick, are you? Or talking to some man on de phone?”
“No, man. I ain’t talking to nobody. You ain’t see de phone dere on de charger where I does leave it?”
“Den what you doing?” He step closer. “Why you have all dese bottles strewn about de yard?”
I start to pick dem up, gathering seven a dem in de crook a me arm. I could carry a lot one time now after almost a year.
“I teaching meself to dance on bottles,” I mumble. He hear me doh.
“What schupidness you talking, woman?”
I turn to him, ready to claim ain’t nothing again. Den I get hot.
“Is schupidness, yes, but is my schupidness. I ain’t bothering nobody and I having a good time wid it. If you ain’t happy for me den leave me alone.”
He reel back, not expecting how mad he make me so fast.
“Mable, baby,” he say, putting on he seductive voice, “leave dat for now and come get in de bed. You need to rest.”
I suck me teeth and carry me bottles over to de casha bush, throwing dem down harder dan I usually do. I go back for more and he stand dere watching me. Big hands in he pajama pants pockets. I ain’t know why pajama pants does have pockets—we must pay for dreams now?
“I coming soon,” I tell he.